


Wash it Away

by kaeorin



Series: Loki's Lullabies [103]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Nightmares, Reader-Insert, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25119880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Loki wakes up from a nightmare, and you do your best to take care of him in the shower.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Series: Loki's Lullabies [103]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678240
Comments: 11
Kudos: 187





	Wash it Away

Some nights, Loki awoke without a sound. On those nights, you would feel him wake up tense and stiff behind you. Sometimes his hands would clench into fists in the sheets and you’d hear the way he had to fight for breath. You weren’t sure how you knew to be awake for those nights. Maybe some part of your brain was constantly listening so that you could be there when he woke up from something awful. Maybe your body was just so attuned to his that you could pick up on the silent distress calls he sent out when his mind took him to the darkest places. Maybe that was silly. Maybe you stayed asleep more nights than you woke up, and you left him to deal with his terror alone.

But tonight, you were awake. His breath came in short pants, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs for a deeper breath. Most nights you laid there quietly for a few moments and then slowly began to move, so you wouldn’t startle him, but tonight _you_ were too startled for that. You turned over to face him, and he barely even seemed to register that you’d moved. His eyes were still closed, but you could see in his face that he was awake. You reached to caress his cheek—but, slowly—and said his name in a low voice just before you made contact. Still, he flinched a little, and you had to ignore the uncomfortable tightening in your chest.

Whatever he’d seen, it continued to play out in his sleep like he’d never escaped it. It was hard to imagine that someone could be as relaxed and silly as he was with you during the day, only to return night after night to some horrible memory. He let you touch him for several long moments, but then turned his face away like he couldn’t bear it any longer.

Before you could even think to tell yourself not to take it personally, he was pulling himself into a sitting position. This was not uncommon lately, and you hated it. He turned his back on you, hid his face like he didn’t want you to see whatever was plaguing him. Some nights, he got up and left. He didn’t always like it when you wrapped yourself around his back and held him, so you edged closer to him so you could sit beside him. His hands were hiding his face, so you couldn’t take one in yours. Instead, you rested your hand on his knee, and squeezed it gently. 

You never really knew what to say on nights like these. What you always wanted to say was some sort of chant: _I’m here, Loki. You’re here. You’re safe._ But was that insulting? He was a grown man. He knew that he was here, and he knew that he was safe. Just because his mind was still haunted with demons didn’t mean that he literally thought they were right there with him. Sometimes you thought that maybe he needed to hear that you loved him. You wondered if maybe he thought his nightmares made him look like less of a man. You wanted to assure him that he was still everything to you, that you still loved him with everything that you had. But maybe that was making the situation too much about yourself. 

Moving on instinct, you slid off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Loki didn’t move, not even when you pulled yourself up onto your knees and nudged his legs apart. It wasn’t sexual. You wanted to hold him, but you didn’t want him to feel trapped, the way he must have felt when you held him from behind. So you slid your arms around his waist and rested your chin on his knee. This seemed nonthreatening. Hopefully. 

You closed your eyes. You’d been in this position before, even outside of...the more sensual moments. You’d whispered to him once, and shyly, that you liked to kneel before your king, and the hunger that had flashed across his face had gone deeper than sexual attraction. You slipped your fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and touched his skin. He felt cold, clammy. Whatever he’d dreamed, it filled you with rage. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the memories or the demons that haunted him and made him feel like this when he should have slept soundly and peacefully in your bed.

When you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. His face was grim, but otherwise unreadable. All you could do was venture a smile that you hoped was reassuring. “It’s okay,” you whispered. _It’s okay that you’re still so frightened. It’s okay that you wake up like this so often. It’s okay that you can’t tell me about it. It’s okay._ He finally moved, just enough to cup your face in his palms. You braced yourself for the way he’d push you away from him. That wasn’t personal either. He needed space after nightmares like tonight’s because he just didn’t have the strength to deal with his feelings and yours at the same time. 

But he didn’t push you away. He just held your face. He smoothed his thumbs along your cheekbones while you tried to swallow down the surge of pride that rose in you. The surge of affection, of love. You rested your hands against his and turned to kiss one of his palms. His hands were clammy too. He’d been sweating for a long time now, at least as long as he’d been trapped in the dream.

You rose to your feet. “You need dry clothes,” you said. There was a balance that you had to strike at times like this one: you had to be gentle, so he didn’t think that you were irritated at him, but also firm and no-nonsense, so he didn’t think that he could argue with you. “Do you want to shower first, or just change?”

He let you pull him up off of the bed too, and he didn’t say a word, but you saw the way his eyes flicked guiltily towards the bathroom door. God, you just wanted to throw your arms around him and crush him in an embrace. Maybe he was cold. Maybe he didn’t like the way his sweat felt, drying against his skin. Maybe he needed a physical reminder that he was _here_.

Whatever it was, you took his hand and led him into the bathroom. He started to reach for the knobs in the shower, but you nudged him aside easily with your body and did it for him. You felt like you had to. You adjusted the temperature, checking the water much more carefully than you would have if you were setting this up for yourself, and then turned back towards him. He’d stripped off his shirt, but not his shorts, and hovered near the door, not quite watching you. 

“Hey. Is this okay? I don’t want to burn you.” You gestured towards the spray with one hand, and held out the other as though in invitation. He took several halting steps forward and put his hand under the water. You couldn’t stop yourself from touching him. He’d had so much pain in his long, long life: who could blame you for needing to touch him with kindness?

“It’s perfect.” 

He was speaking, at least, which made you feel a little better. You pushed his shorts down off his waist, and then made quick work of your own pajamas. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. You didn’t want to leave him alone right now. There was some part of you that needed him to know that you were here. That he wasn’t alone anymore.

When you both stood under the water, you watched as he tilted his head back to wet his hair. He let the spray wash over his face, cascade down his arms and chest and belly. You touched him. You couldn’t help it. He ran his fingers through his hair, and you caressed his chest. Maybe you wanted to remind him that you were still right here, even when he closed his eyes. 

He reached for the shampoo, but you were faster. “I’ve got you,” you mumbled as you dispensed some of it into your palm. “I want to help.”

You expected more of a fight, but he just...nodded. So you washed his hair for him. The smell of your shampoo filled the air. Maybe it would comfort him? You stood close to him, almost pressing your body against his, as you worked his hair into a lather. Even on better nights, you loved his hair. You loved to play with it, and drag your nails gently along his scalp, and you relished the low sounds of pleasure that he made when you did. So maybe you took a little longer to rinse his hair than was strictly necessary. You only wanted to make sure that every last trace of shampoo was gone. And you wanted to touch him. 

When you were finished, you worked some of your conditioner into the ends of his hair. It was hard to be sure, but you has suspicions that he’d never really bothered with that before joining you here. You were careful to make sure each strand was coated: when it was properly cared for, his hair had a bit of curl in it, and you loved it. 

If this were another night, a better night, now would be the time that he tried to wash your hair for you. You readied yourself to shut that down. Tonight wasn’t about you. If he insisted, maybe you could be convinced, but only because that process was so familiar to him by now and you were willing to give him that sense of normalcy if he needed it, but it wasn’t high on your list of desires right now. He did reach for the shampoo bottle, but he didn’t protest when you took his hand and laced your fingers through his. 

You washed his body, too. You took your time with it. You dragged a bar of soap along his skin. As you worked it into a lather, you heard yourself telling him things that you loved about his body. The strength in his arms, and how they cradled you so gently at night. The sound of his heartbeat when you laid your head against his chest. His stomach, and how he could allow himself to belly-laugh in your presence until you thought he’d fall to his knees. 

His legs. The perfect shape of them, of his muscles, and how you stole hungry glances at them even before the first time he kissed you. How they rooted him to the ground and supported him. How they’d brought him through every last moment of his life and allowed him to stand there before you in the shower. He turned away from you, and you washed his back, scattering kisses along his shoulder blades and confessing about how sometimes you dreamed solely about the muscles in his back. He was _beautiful_.

You fell quiet as you moved lower down his back. Ordinarily, you would have had plenty to say about his ass, but maybe that felt strange tonight. He let his head tip forward, and you heard him laugh, even over the sound of the shower.

“Nothing to say now?” He sounded almost like himself. Or enough like himself, anyway, that you allowed yourself to give him a solid pinch on one of those perfect cheeks and pressed yourself against his back. 

When you turned him around again to rinse his body, he was smiling at you. That warmed you, but you said nothing, and instead set about rinsing the conditioner out of his hair. He helped, a little, and you found that you were willing to let him, now that some of the light had come back into his eyes. 

At last, you were finished. You’d washed off every last trace of his sweat and the soap. You knew better than to entertain even the barest hint of the idea that you’d done away with the nightmare itself, but you could still hope that maybe he’d be able to sleep better after this. Or sleep at all. If he couldn’t, you were willing to stay awake with him. You’d talk to him all night long, if he needed you to: you’d fill the empty night air with fairy tales and stories of your childhood and further whispered confessions if he needed the sound of your voice. You wished, not for the first time, that you could go to war against the visions that he saw. You would do everything in your power to slay them just so he could rest. That, however, you kept to yourself. He didn’t like it when you talked about putting yourself at risk for him.

You reached past him to turn off the shower, but he caught you up in his arms and held you tightly. He didn’t move. You closed your eyes and took in the feel of his body, the solidness, the comfort, and could only hope that you felt the same way to him. Maybe you did. You felt the way he rested his cheek against your head, the way he rubbed it gently, maybe thoughtfully. 

Neither of you were in any hurry to get out and dry yourselves off. As far as you were concerned, your job wasn’t finished yet: you fully intended to continue looking after him—drying him off and brushing his hair and helping him dress in fresh clothing—but for right now, you were happy to stay here. To hold him. 

The water kept raining down on you, and slowly it began to wash away the horrors of the past.


End file.
